Hands
by Deelightful76
Summary: Not gonna lie - I have a thing for hands. Specifically men's hands that look powerful with short tidy nails and veins that practically pop with strength. Matt has very good hands and I imagine Lucy would be every bit as appreciative as me.


Lucy had always loved Wyatt's hands. They weren't the first thing she'd noticed about him – that had been his gruff drawl, plump inviting lips, and the sexy dimpled smirk of his that revealed startling blue eyes – but she'd clocked them soon after. Thick fingers and strong dextrous thumbs, with soft pads that could be so gentle and delicate, short trimmed nails, prominent veins and tendons that marked the power he held, hardened callouses that peppered the soft skin of his palms, and a spray of fine hair on the side. She loved his hands.

His hands that rested on his lap and gave her a point of focus as terrified and claustrophobic they'd hurtled through time on their first jump. That effortlessly caught her bra and held it as ripped into it with his teeth. That diffused a bomb. That fired a gun the first of the many times he'd saved her.

His hands that buckled her in, checked her straps and made sure she was always secure.

His hands that took hers in his and offered her comfort as she sat splattered in blood after witnessing the assassination of her historical hero.

His hands that idly clutched a sharpened stick as he opened up to Jim Bowie about leaving his unit, and gripped the musket, his eyes wet with unshed tears as he battled between leaving more men to die and abandoning his team.

His hands that stroked her cheek and pulled her to him for a kiss that opened her eyes and her heart to the possibilities of him.

His hands that freed themselves from restraints, his nimble fingers deftly working a nail or a paperclip into the lock.

His hands that showed her how to handle a gun, throw a punch and defend herself.

His hands that wrapped around her, holding her tight with relief when they were reunited in Chicago and again in France. That held her in the hallway at Mason Industries as they breathed each other in, not ready to say goodbye.

His hands that soothed her fears and secured her as they jostled in the dark, cramped confines of Wendell's trunk.

His hands that he shoved into his pockets to steady himself as he told her she was beautiful and that she'd saved him. That lifted her chin to meet his gaze the first time he'd truly kissed her. That explored her body, undressed her and touched her tenderly that night in Hollywood.

His hands that tentatively cupped her face as she kissed him, his touch full of the sorrow and regret of an undeserving heart. That grew more certain as he accepted her forgiveness and kissed her back. That rubbed her thighs after he belted her in, that plugged in their destination and that he held out to hers marking the end of their history and the start of their future.

His hands that joyfully roamed her as they kissed under mistletoe. That mapped every inch of her skin and the sounds she made under his caress. That worshipped her body as he poured his heart and soul into her.

His hands that stole for her. That held out a gift – a glittering bauble taken from a happier time and kept - treasured proof of a memory never forgotten, a love never lost, a heart that never left.

His hands that turned the key unlocking the door to their home. That carried their boxes and bags. That assembled their furniture. That painted their walls.

His hands that lit a fire under her skin at their touch. That made her moan and quiver. That made her back arch, her breath quicken and her cry out his name.

His hands that shook as he held out a ring, a question on his lips. That placed her hand on his heart as tears pooled in his eyes at the love he felt and saw reflected back in hers. That grasped and pulled her to him, his face exultant, when she answered 'yes'.

His hands that trembled as she walked down the aisle. That stilled when she smiled. That grazed over her knuckles as he vowed his life to her for eternity. That tremored as she glided a band onto his finger, promising herself to him.

His hands that entwined with hers and held her waist as they shared their first dance. That wiped a tear as he listened to the speeches and fell once more as he spoke himself. That raised a glass aloft to toast his beautiful bride. That entwined his fingers with hers and clutched her waist as they danced their first dance surrounded by their loved ones.

His hands that massaged her feet and eased her when her belly was swollen with life. That built cribs and hung mobiles. That made her pickle sandwiches in the middle of the night. That rubbed cream into her stretch marks and made her feel beautiful and sexy when the mirror told her otherwise.

His hands given to her to crush and scratch as she fought through the agony. That mopped her brow. That rubbed her belly. That held ice to her lips and stroked her sweaty hair. That cut the cords and placed their babies against her heaving chest. That traced patterns up her arm as she slept so she'd know he was there with her.

His hands that cradled and soothed their infant daughters. That changed their diapers and bathed them. That held theirs in his, swinging them as they walked down the street, their little fists lost in is great palms. That spun and tossed them squealing into the air and caught them breathless, wide eyed and smiling. That brushed and plaited their long hair, tickled them as they giggled, and pulled magic coins from behind their ears.

His hands that made her dinner, brought her breakfast in bed and packed her lunch. That poured her glasses of wine after long stressful days at work.

His hands that opened doors like a gentleman. That placed a sturdy arm on the small of her back, letting her take the lead whenever she wanted but always reassuring her that she had his protection.

His hands that signalled a million words to bring noise to the soundless world of their perfect little boy Ethan Sherwin. That tossed a ball with him and the girls in the garden. That rose in triumph when he scored a goal. That showed him that the world was his for the taking.

His hands that gripped the steering wheel as his heart ripped from his chest on each of the drives to deposit their children at university. That carried their bags and boxes away, his core splintering into a dust. That clenched in pride at the incredible opportunities his children faced.

His hands that took the arms of their daughters and walked them down the aisle. That shook the hands of their betrothed and welcomed them into their family placing his trust of the protection of their children in their hands. That grasped her hand as their son gave his own vows to the one he loved.

His hands that rocked their grandchildren as he peppered them with kisses. That tucked their hair back as he whispered private jokes in their ears. That snuck them sugary treats of which their parents wouldn't approve. That cleaned their grazes and covered with plasters, with a kiss that stole their pain away.

His hands that embraced all those he loved and had never wavered in their need for her. That overwhelmed her in pleasure and made her whole.

His hands that she held now. Weakened with age and sprinkled with dark spots at once they weren't the hands she'd known and at the same time they were unchanged. She threaded her worn fingers between his and clasped. She leant forward and placed a kiss to his forehead, his nose, his lips and then finally drew their entwined hand to her lips.

His hands that softened as he took a long breath and with her hands holding him close, fell asleep for the last time.

His hands that she felt grip hers and lull her to another place. That folded around her and coated her in love. That drew her towards an endless dream to which she floated willingly. She kissed her children goodbye and took his hand.


End file.
